Jupiter
by FuriousRose920
Summary: Literati, one-shot: They weren't really meant for each other. Not on this earth anyway. Maybe they could make it work on Jupiter.


Disclaimer: This story is solely for entertainment purposes. I unfortunately do not own Gilmore Girls, or any of it's characters. Sad face.

Author's Note: Thanks for clicking on my short, little, angsty tale. I hope you enjoy. I got the inspiration for this story from a song of the same name heard at a writer's night.

Also, whether you liked it or hated it, please leave a review. Reviews make the world go round.

**Jupiter**  
_by FuriousRose920_

* * *

_You and me could only be in make believe and fantasy_  
_I know it's true, but I still want you_  
_We could only make it work on Jupiter, not on this earth_  
_I know it's true, but I still want you_  
_I still want you, I still want you, I still want you_  
_On Jupiter_

_-Jupiter_

* * *

As the smoke curled around his fingers and disappeared into the cold night air, he breathed in deeply, allowing the sooty vapor to fill his lungs fully. His throat burned from the tobacco but he welcomed the sensation. He'd given up the habit a long time ago, but this magnificent act of defiance against his adult self gave his nerves a temporary sense of calm. For the first time in a long while, he felt in control. Breathe in. Lungs fill with with the ever-present ashen flavor of his youth. Breathe out. Expel it into the New York skyline. Repeat.

Holding the slim dart between his fingers was the the only thing that kept them from shaking. He contemplated this as he took another slow drag. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Even though he had told (or was it begged?) her not to come tonight, he knew she would anyway. Even though it broke a little piece of him every time she crawled into his arms late at night, he still somehow wanted it.

He knew she would come tonight because that arrogant prick she was married to was on another business trip. He knew this because that was the only time she ever called. In the middle of the night, her voice so sad and tender and full of need. Every time her told her not to come. And every time she did it anyway. A defiant trait she'd learned from him in their youth, perhaps. A smile touched his lips at the thought of her somehow holding on to a piece of him after all these years. Holding it inside her even as other parts of her personality were stripped away. Replaced with someone he didn't recognize. A woman more like her mother-in-law than her own mother. He never would have believed it possible.

The life he'd imagined she'd live, one full of warmth and writing and reading and love, had been replaced with the cold, sterile existence of attending charity galas, planning Daughters of the American Revolution events and slipping into a lonely bed at night. She had become timid in demeanor and her eyes no longer burned with curiosity and wonder. Except for those nights when she'd show up with that pleading look in her eyes and gnawing on her bottom lip, successfully breaking him into a million little pieces.

That they'd run into each other at all in a city of millions had been a wonder. She lived in the Upper West Side in a multi-million dollar high rise overlooking Central Park, while he resided happily in a SoHo loft, generally never going north of Grand Central Station unless absolutely necessary - generally, whenever he needed to meet with his editor. But then one day, when he'd been restless and wandering his city with a book in one hand and a street vendor hot dog in the other, there'd she'd been, standing in the middle of Washington Square Park, wrapped in an expensive-looking peacoat, unmoving, and lost in thought.

He'd stopped when he'd seen her, unsure of what to do. He'd cut through this park hundreds of times since his return to the city but he'd never in a million years expected to run into her. She was still as beautiful as ever, but she wore an exhausted, unfocused expression on her face. Before he'd had time to react, she looked up from her reverie and locked eyes with him. After their last encounter all those years ago, when he'd made a move (the wrong one, in hindsight) and she had gone running back to that asshole who treated her like an object he'd won, the last thing he'd expected from her was a genuine smile. But that's what he received. That smile turned into a hug, which became small talk that eventually moved to a local coffee shop. And it was then he'd lost the meticulous control of the heart he'd been keeping under lock and key for the last decade. Since the day she'd turned him away for the last time. All of that hard work he'd put in, turning his softer side into teflon had all been for naught. A simple smile. A hand over his. The light touch of their legs meeting under the table. He became undone. Unraveled.

He wasn't sure how she'd gotten his number, he'd never asked and she'd never offered, but that was the first night she had called him. It had been well after midnight and he had been awoken by the light buzzing of his mobile vibrating on the nightstand and the glow of the caller ID. He hadn't recognized the number - which, as a general rule meant the caller could just good and well piss off - but tonight was different. Maybe it had been the fogginess of sleep or the strangeness of his day, but he'd picked up.

He'd mumbled a gruff hello, and after a moment of silence, one in which he was sure the caller had dialed his number in error, he heard a timid "Hello" on the other end of the line. He was silent for a moment, again unsure of what to do. And for the second time that day, she made the decision for him.

"I can't stop thinking about you," she'd said more forcefully. And after another pause, "I need to see you."

He knew she was married. He knew it was wrong. He knew that they could never make it work, at least not in this lifetime on this earth. (How's the weather on Jupiter this time of year? How's the housing market while the planet is in retrograde?). He still wasn't sure what compelled him to give her his address, but not too long after, she was at his door. All sadness and smokey eyes and stony resolve.

They stood on opposite sides of the doorway for what seemed like an endless series of moments. He was fairly certain he was dreaming until she finally entered his small apartment, brushing his shoulder as she breezed by, sending a chill up his spine. She didn't speak as she slowly gave herself a tour of his living space. She paused at his immense bookshelf that held volumes upon volumes of tomes from James Joyce to Dave Eggers and everyone in between.

"I'm going to borrow this," she spoke finally, pulling out the latest release from Junot Diaz and setting it down on a small, worn side table he'd been carting around since his Truncheon days. It was nicked and scratched from years of abuse, but he would never dream of getting rid of it. The sturdy oak had served him well on many a night when he would alternate between gently setting down his glass (or bottle if the mood suited) of whisky and tossing down his latest manuscript in frustration. Just seeing her next to it was unsettling, as she'd been the cause of much of that drinking and his muse on several nights of drunken scribery .

After setting down the book, she continued her tour, disappearing down the short hallway. He heard the unmistakable creak of the door to his room, thanks to a whiny hinge that had been needing oiling for some time. The sound jarred him out of his inaction and cleared his foggy mind. He could hear her rummaging around his room. Picking things up, inspecting them and setting them back down. After a moment, he followed her footpaths into the room. As he entered, she was in the process of removing her coat and laying it primly on an antique rocking chair in the corner of his room. It had been a gift from his mother when she'd taken off for permanent life on the road. The chair had belonged to his grandfather. A steely, bear of a man who he only remembered as being an imposing and terrifying figure. Unlike his side table, he wasn't sure why he held on to this one.

Looking up from the chair, he finally took her in. She was standing in the middle of his room, in not much more than a silken slip. Her long brunette hair draped over her shoulders and down her arms, which were adorned with goosebumps. Whether they were from excitement or a chill, he'd never know. He stood there for several moments, letting his eyes drag down every inch of her, before she finally walked to him. He had been closely examining her collarbone when she took her slim fingers and placed them under his chin, applying a slight pressure to raise his gaze to hers.

It was then he finally spoke. "Why are you here?"

"Because I need you."

"But this isn't real. You aren't mine and you never will be."

"I am tonight."

"This is killing me," he responded, pain evident in his voice, his hands shaking from the stress of keeping his hands off her.

"This is saving me."

And with that, she tilted her head towards him and captured his lips in her own. It was like their first kiss all over again, hesitant at first but soon a sense of familiarity replaced the tentative embrace. His hands no longer shook from tension as he grabbed both sides of her face, deepening the kiss and pulling her closer so that he could feel the entirety of her lithe body against him. She shuddered in response, releasing a sigh of pleasure. Her hands found the front of his shirt as she grabbed him tightly, pushing him to the nearest flat surface, which happened to be a perfectly sturdy wall. He barely registered the growl he emitted in response to the aggressive gesture. When she began to playfully tug on his hair, he lifted his lips from hers just long enough to turn the tables and press her up against the wall. In one swift move, he had her back pressed against his and had pinned her arms above her head. As she turned to look at him over her shoulder, he knew he was lost. He would do anything for her. If hell was a place, he would surely have a room there waiting for him.

He wasn't sure if it was minutes or hours or days or weeks later when they laid together silently on his bed, undressed, sated and breathing heavily. They didn't speak or touch or even face one another, and before long she rose and pulled on her silken garment. She kept her back to him as she picked up her coat from the chair, shrugging into it and pulling her hair free from its confines. She paused for a moment when she reached the door, but whatever she had been mulling over was vetoed quickly. With the squeak of a rusty hinge, she closed the door behind her and she was gone.

He hadn't heard from her again for weeks, but when he had, it been more of the same. A late night call, a light knock on his door and no words exchanged. He'd stopped pleading with her in person. He tried to keep her away with every call. Begged her to leave him be. To stop calling. She was tearing him to shreds. Those glimpses of how life could have been were more painful than anything he'd ever felt. And every time he thought he was past it, that it was possible to get over her, she'd make that call. He knew he would always come back to her if she asked. And she would ask. And when she stepped though his door, he would tell himself that it could work this time. That little apartment in SoHo had become their own private Jupiter.

But no matter what, she would always leave without so much as a glance, and he would spend what remained of the early morning hours staring up at the small crack in his ceiling - trying to decide if it was getting bigger or he was just imagining things - or on his small patio, soothing his nerves with the repetitive drag of a cigarette.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. That's how he found himself now. Awaiting the tentative knock on his door that would lead to a night that would take another small piece of his soul. They'd gone through their ritual up to this point. He'd begged her not to come. To stop taking a piece of him with her every time she left. She'd made it known she had every intention of coming.

Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe she wouldn't come. Maybe he would finally be able to stop himself from opening the door.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. As the thin, white paper burned down to the tan filter, he extinguished the smoke in a ceramic ashtray and walked inside. She was late. Perhaps she had finally decided to release him. To end his suffering. But as he thought it, he heard a soft wrapping at the door and his chest tightened.

Just one more time, he thought as he reached for the knob and turned it. Just one more night on Jupiter.

-fin-


End file.
